


Butcher Knife and a Hard On

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-10
Updated: 2010-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You feelin' lucky, punk?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butcher Knife and a Hard On

**Author's Note:**

> Happiest of birthdays to [](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**brooklinegirl**](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com/) who requested Pete/Gabe shenanigans. Title is from this quote from _Dirty Harry_ : When a naked man is chasing a woman through an alley with a butcher knife and a hard-on, I figure he isn't out collecting for the Red Cross. It has nothing really to do with the fic, but it made me laugh.

  
There’s a Clint Eastwood marathon on, and Pete has no intention of moving off his couch during it, even if they show weird shit like “The Beguiled”. He’s been on tour and on stage and in the news nonstop for fifteen of the last eighteen months, and he’s relatively certain that’s earned him a three-day weekend marathon of sloth.

Gabe’s crashing at his place while he’s finishing up the final touches on the newest Cobra album with Patrick and Ryland, and Pete has made it explicitly clear that the living room will contain no talk, no work, no music that is not soundtrack related, and no weird-ass vegetarian dip. If Gabe’s going to force Pete to eat vegetables, he’s damn well going to smother them in something bad for him.

He lets Gabe feel superior when Pete dips the carrot into the hummus, allowing him to think he’s pulling a fast one on Pete. Pete’s a giver and Gabe’s a needy little shit. Still, Pete’s kind of fond of him, so he lets him be as cocky as he needs to keep his spirits up. Besides, hummus is pretty tasty, so long as he doesn’t think about the beans it’s made from, given that they remind him of little naked butts.

“What’s on?” Gabe thumps down on the couch next to Pete, all arms and legs and long body. He’s half laying on Pete, which is fine, Pete’s good on physical contact – too good, Patrick would say – but still, he’s not as light as he looks, so Pete huffs out a breath when he lands half on his lap and half on his stomach.

“The Gauntlet. Shh.”

“Because dialogue is what makes a Clint Eastwood and Sondra Locke movie. Yeah.” Gabe smirks, but settles in to watch, moving around until his head is on Pete’s lap. Pete stretches out, putting his feet up on the coffee table to give Gabe more surface, one hand settled on Gabe’s stomach and the other stroking his hair. Gabe’s weird about being touched sometimes – he’s moody as a motherfucker, and Pete’s had his hands slapped more than once – but when he’s mostly relaxed, Pete can get away with petting him. Gabe won’t admit that he likes it, but the fact that he allows it speaks loud and clear.

“I fucking love this movie, man.” Pete sighs happily, rubbing slow circles on Gabe’s stomach. “It’s like the Speed of its day.”

“I would have figured you for a monkey movie man.”

“Oh, I’m _totally_ a monkey movie man. But this is a different kind of awesome. This is a ‘Clint Eastwood is a bad ass motherfucker’ awesome as opposed to ‘Clint Eastwood is such a bad ass motherfucker that it doesn’t bother him to be upstaged by a monkey’.”

“I see.”

“And the spaghetti westerns. Those are ‘Clint Eastwood is such a bad ass motherfucker that he can wear that poncho and get away with it’. How do you think I’d look in a poncho?”

“Is it okay if I just say you are _not_ a bad ass motherfucker?” Gabe’s stomach shakes a little with his amusement and Pete slides his hand under Gabe’s shirt to tickle him.

One of the reasons people don’t get to touch Gabe is because it’s not so secret that Gabe is the most ticklish man on the planet. He barely has to touch him before Gabe is writhing and laughing, gasping for air and falling off the couch. Pete follows him down, pushing the coffee table away as he straddles Gabe, his fingers finding all the worst spots until Gabe is gasping and flailing and trying to curl up into a fetal position at the same time he’s trying to buck Pete off. It’s a lot like a carnival ride and Pete can’t help but laugh.

“You’re…you _fucker_ , you’re mi-miss- _fuck_ -missing your mo-mo…” He dissolves into another bout of giggles, then falls back onto the floor, obviously worn out. Pete doesn’t let his guard down, because Gabe is a crafty motherfucker and Pete’s learned that lesson the hard way.

Instead, he grabs Gabe’s wrists and pins them to the floor, looking down at him, his bangs falling into his face. “Say ‘uncle’.”

“Fuck you.”

“Close,” Pete draws the word out, his face hurting from smiling. “Try again.”

“You are _such_ a fucker, Wentz.”

“Still not quite right.” Pete shakes his head, trying to stop smiling and make himself frown. He can’t quite manage it though, because Gabe’s eyes are bright and dangerous and hot. “C’mon. I have faith in you, Gabanti.”

“I’m going to kill you with my mind, Pete.”

Pete shifts, settling his ass firmly on Gabe’s stomach. Gabe growls and fights Pete’s grip, but Pete’s tenacious when he wants to be. “Say ‘uncle’.” He makes it a sing-song. A taunt. Gabe’s eyes narrow and the next thing Pete knows, he’s on the ground beneath Gabe, his legs on either side of Gabe’s body, letting Gabe settle very solidly between them. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Gabe purrs and pins Pete’s arms down, shifting to settle over him and adjust for the height difference. Pete’s eyes threaten to close as the weight and heat of Gabe’s body engulfs him. “Now, what was it I was supposed to say again, Pete?”

He wraps his legs around Gabe, thinking he can flip them over again, but instead Gabe tightens his grip and presses flush against Pete. Chest to chest. Cock to cock. Pete shivers and Gabe’s smile is as predatory as his band’s namesake. “I don’t remember.”

Gabe laughs and Pete _feels_ it, like the rumble before an eruption, a warning, a danger sign. “You don’t? Let’s see if we can’t jog your memory.”

Pete braces himself to be tickled – it’s also a widely known fact that Pete is extremely ticklish – but instead, Gabe’s hips thrust slowly and his mouth finds Pete’s, tongue pushing past Pete’s parted lips and sliding deep in his mouth. Pete moans and his hips rock upward, instinct in control and overruling any inhibitions.

Gabe presses the advantage, using his not-inconsiderable skill to explore Pete’s mouth. His tongue traces Pete’s palate, his teeth, tangles with his tongue and just makes Pete feel _owned_ , like Gabe now has the deed to his mouth in some bizarre real estate transaction gone as wrong in this metaphor in Pete’s head.

“You’re missing your movie.”

Pete laughs roughly, wrapping his legs tighter around Gabe and thrusting up into him. “Fuck the movie.”

Gabe laughs, low and promising. “Not exactly what I had in mind.” He pulls back enough to make Pete disagree with a low sound, but then his hand slides between them and Pete’s head hits the floor with a thump as Gabe undoes Pete’s jeans and then his own. It takes a threat to stop to get Pete to loosen his legs enough for Gabe to get his own jeans down to his knees, but Pete’s hips are rising, desperate for friction, so it’s easy to get his jeans off, though Gabe takes his time, scraping his nails over the curve of Pete’s ass.

“Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_ ,” Pete hisses, feeling the wet slickness leaking across the head of his cock. “C’mon, Gabanti. C’mon. Please. C’mon.”

“So fucking demanding,” Gabe laughs without any malice, shifting back over Pete and bracing himself on one elbow, his other hand between them and wrapping around both their cocks. Pete’s head arches back, exposing his neck to Gabe’s mouth and Gabe takes full advantage, teeth scraping and tongue licking down to the lines of Pete’s tattoo of thorns.

Pete doesn’t even try for words, too busy making rough noises against Gabe’s ear. He can feel Gabe shiver with every hot breath he makes. Gabe’s hand is smooth, his fingers long and tight and his palm cups Pete’s dick just so, the head constantly rubbing against the hard ridge of Gabe’s. He makes a low noise – a plea or a protest, he’s not quite sure – and then he’s coming, hot against Gabe’s skin. Gabe makes a noise of his own and strokes them both faster, tighter and then he comes as well, leaving the bottom hem of Pete’s shirt damp.

“Clint Eastwood would be so pissed at us right now,” Pete murmurs when he can feel his brain again. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do shit like that during one of his movies.”

“Mmm.” Gabe nuzzles Pete’s neck, biting at the tendon and Pete arches upward. Everything is too much, but he still wants more. “You calling Clint Eastwood homophobic, dude?”

“No, man. I meant with girls either.”

“Huh. I don’t know. He was ballin’ Sondra Locke on the set all the time. Ballin’ the boss, man. Only reason she had a career.” Gabe pulls back enough to look Pete in the eye, licking his mouth and stealing another kiss before grinning wide enough that Pete knows he’s going to have to kick Gabe’s ass for whatever he says next. “Just like me.”  



End file.
